


There Can Be But One

by lando_cal_rice_ian



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Manipulation, it's sad boi hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22569769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lando_cal_rice_ian/pseuds/lando_cal_rice_ian
Summary: third-generation [witch/wizard] reader finds themselves without a true friend in hogwarts – until tom, for whom they'd do anything. but is he genuine with his friendship, or is he also using them?what power you accumulate may be for him; but never forget, there can only be one who is most powerful
Relationships: Tom Riddle & Reader, Tom Riddle/You
Kudos: 10





	There Can Be But One

**Author's Note:**

> TUMBLR REQUEST: Can I please get a Tom Riddle imagine where Tom notices his shy Slytherin friend has been getting stronger (physically and magically) only to find out that they've been running themselves exhausted trying to get stronger so they can protect him for once? – Anonymous
> 
> unfortunately i couldn’t imagine tom riddle reacting kindly to finding someone else trying to become strong. but i also didn’t want the manipulative friend to win! so this has an ending which might not seem satisfying, but is better for the reader than serving a person who can’t, unfortunately, really care for anyone else.
> 
> thank you for reading, lovelies! xx

**u n e d i t e d**

****

* * *

Not quite pure. The others liked to remind you of that. As just a third generation [witch/wizard], the line from which you hailed held little power compared to the rich Slytherins with whom you sat. Your grandparents, both muggleborn, had left behind love, and a significant enough fortune that allowed for comfort, but not much else. Power, reverence, that was yet to be earned. 

Friends were hard to come by. Some had offered companionship, but not without rules: deemed inferior, you often found yourself running errands, bearing punishments for mistakes that were never yours, or falling behind, just a quiet shadow among a group of glittering peers. 

It was all you knew for a while. 

Then, came Tom. 

You’d never spoken before, save for passing greetings, or half-hearted goodbyes. He sat at the front in classes, quiet, but astute. An orphaned half-blood, his standing in the House was just as precarious as yours; though charming he could be, Tom tended to keep fellow students at an arm’s length. It wasn’t shyness, as it was for you; with Tom, it seemed as if he picked his friends with a careful precision, though even with them he seldom opened up. 

So, when he sat at dinner by your side, it came as a bit of a shock. Your hair was a mess, the rain outside had not been kind and neither had your friends — you'd run an errand or two just before rushing to the Great Hall. Mud caked your shoes. Edmund turned his nose up at the sight, and forgot his thanks. 

Tom pushed a cup of tea in front of you. 

“You must be cold.” As usual, the perfect prefect. Tom smiled, but it was the early days, and you ignored how it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Here.” 

It was the first time someone had done something for _you_. For that alone, you would have died for him. 

Edmund, Cecilia and Henrietta became mere blurs. People who had once seemed so compelling to you were now dull, nothing compared to the brilliance that was Tom. He was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, and though his muggle blood brought him shame, you could find no faults in him whatsoever. The two of you bonded over your wants to be accepted as a Slytherin. And as time went on, you found a place in Hogwarts at last: at his side. 

As prefect, he often protected you. The others saw it, but had grown somewhat respectful of him, and sneered in secret at your special treatment. You were allowed in the hallways after curfew — often to do something for Tom. You grew sneakier because of it. Light on your feet, lies fresh on your tongue. 

But it felt wrong to rely on him forever. 

Friends were meant to protect _each other_. And for Tom you felt that you would do almost anything. 

It started small; heeding professors’ words and their teachings, doing homework, setting extra tasks to learn instead of spending weekends in Hogsmeade. Tom had secrets of his own, plans he didn’t share details about. “I want to be powerful,” he admitted. “The _most_ powerful.” And that brought risks. So then came the nights, hours spent in secret among books in the library, consuming spells not yet taught; practicing in the dark that stole from you sleep you didn’t want. 

His gaze lingered one evening. In the glow of the setting sun, the lake rippled, and the sigh of each turned page caused Tom to tense. Before he’d sat, you’d showed him a spell: a new one, with a smile so wide he’d almost missed the dark circles under your eyes; his face had betrayed little, and with a nod he’d said, “Impressive. Good.” But now, there were no distractions to hide them from his perception. 

“You’re not sleeping.” It wasn’t a question. He reached out to close the tome in your lap. “Why?” 

His hand remained pressed to the cover, and it was his fingers you stared at when you answered, “Not tired.” A lie – one you were sure he’d see in your eyes. In fact, the opposite was true. You were so exhausted that, so far, you’d been dragged to the Infirmary so often that you’d lost count. 

But Tom pried no further, and left a few moments later. He had prefects to remind of their patrol duties as Head Boy. Late at night, when the words began to swim before your eyes, he came to you in the Common Room. 

Still robed, the dark fabric whispered about him. When he stood in the firelight, he looked older, not seventeen, not your friend, but an overture of that wizard, the _most powerful_ , that he aspired to become, taking shape in the flames that danced across his reflective face. There was nothing in his gaze save for... what was that, _suspicion_? 

“Tom.” The greeting was not returned. Instead, he lifted his chin, looked down his nose at where you sprawled on the chaise. “What is it?” 

“Do you know how dangerous it is to sneak into the Restricted Section, [Y/N]?” A rhetorical question, but even if it hadn’t been you could not have answered. None had known you went past curfew to the library, and no faculty staff had caught you in a section you once dared never even glance at. How could Tom have found out this secret? 

He knelt, but even on face level with you, it felt as if you were much, much smaller. Features softening, it was the light that made it seem as if emotions flickered in his eyes. “You could get caught. Suspended. Perhaps even expelled.” 

“I...” No words came now, and in silence you watched Tom exhale a breath through his nose, as if disappointed. His gaze lifted up to you again, and, leaning closer, he studied the emotions flitting across your face. Shock, anxiety, guilt. His hand found yours. 

“Stop what you're doing, [Y/N].” His grip tightened. “If not for you, then for me.” 

A request that you could not cast aside. His touch lingered for a moment more before he withdrew his hand and stood. “Go to bed, [Y/N/N]. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

He was at the stairs when you called out. “Tom,” soft, it might have gone unheard, but he turned. And whether you were glad of it or a little disappointed, you weren’t sure. 

“Yes, [Y/N]?” 

Once — it had been just that one time; fear was hard to shake, and no matter how accustomed you’d become to sneaking around, being caught in a forbidden area was a risk you managed to take only once. _Once_. A while ago _._ Then how could Tom know... if he hadn’t kept it to himself for weeks now? 

“I,” _come on_ , you begged, “I can explain. Please, let me explain.” When he didn’t speak, but tilted his head, just so, a sign you took for listening, you blurted, “I did it— I did it to become stronger.” 

His eyes flared. There, a barrage of thoughts flickered; bleeding into a face that was so often nonchalant. But, unreadable. So chaotic, so merged, emotions so _guarded_ — and for the first time, you realised just how little you really knew about Tom. 

“For you.” The words choked in your throat. Desperate, you wanted to hold on to him, feeling as if the friend you cherished most in the world was slipping away. Tom watched in silence, neither leaving, nor drawing near. “To help protect you. Like you do for me all the time.” 

Silence. Again, his features held nothing. Tom turned his gaze upon the fireplace, and for too long considered the flames; while, in all that time, you fretted. What could he be thinking? Did he hate you? Distrust you? Could you mend this, and return to being friends? Or... no, you didn’t want to consider that. 

“You lied to me.” Narrowed eyes watched; he saw the tears that now spilled, the desperation clear across your face. This was the companion he was accustomed to: the one without secrets, the one he could trust. The accusation was true; but, though an accusation, it held no contempt, none of the hardness you expected. 

In fact, Tom softened. 

He came closer, and knelt once more. Hands reaching up, it came as a surprise when he cupped your face, when he said, soft, “How loyal you are, [Y/N].” His hold tightened, just a little. “The best of allies. A true...” Here, he hesitated, “friend,” as if it were an unfamiliar word. 

Tom’s brow creased into a frown. Again, he was pensive. And when his gaze found yours, this time, there was a clearness, an almost sincere look, as if this was the real Tom, at last, in almost two years, coming forth to be acquainted. Gone was that feeling of being kept in the dark. He was open — just as much as he was, in truth, hollow. 

“But remember this.” A shadow befell his face. “The most powerful? There can be but one.” 

Good, caring, warm: when he was born as he was, product of the misdeed of his mother’s selfish desire, Tom was _none_ of those things. Silver-tongued, he lied. It was no surprise he taught you the same. But to be lied _to_ — was, at a time, unforgivable. “I’d have told a professor. Had you expelled. If you dared try take, what is mine.” 

Shocked, no words in response came to you. 

No matter, Tom wasn’t listening. Despite all that — despite his circumstances, his inability, unlike others, to form true attachments, to care _for_ the people around him, but instead about what these people could give him (and you had been used no different) — he hadn’t carried out that plan. Because, _despite all that_ , Tom, in all his years, hadn’t trusted someone, like he did you. 

Or _was_ it trust? A soft spot, it could be, sure; perhaps like a pet, a puppet, a future servant, he’d regarded you with what could almost be kindness. And now, for the loyalty you’d shown him — a perfect sacrifice in his search for power and glory — he pulled away. 

“Consider this friendship at an end.” 

The ghost of his warmth remained there on your skin long after he was gone. He had a habit of doing that, whether he was aware or not, of abiding; from the moment he’d offered his friendship, Tom Riddle had become a part of your soul. 

Now, that soul felt ripped apart. Losing a friend so dear was like losing a part of your life. 

No matter how much you tried to make amends, to gain his attention and favour once more, Tom remained distant. A cold slight, you thought. A fault that was yours. You’d lied, and he, magnificent where you were dull, cut ties. 

In time, new friends came. Graduated and entering the Aurors’ Office, the matter of blood was soon forgot. Never gone, but diminished. 

The heartbreak, the self-doubt, melted to nothing. And Tom Riddle became a scar of the past. 

It wasn’t until years later, facing the man who now called himself Lord Voldemort, whose wand sparked forth vile magic amongst followers just as dark, that the realisation dawned. Voldemort turned his wand upon you, the killing curse silent on his tongue. 

That night, long ago, Tom had set you free. 


End file.
